Liar Liar - [41]

They were heading deep into St Mary’s now. People who’d never been to the city had heard of St Mary’s thanks to Southampton Football Club, who’d moved to a swanky new stadium there in 2001. The move was supposed to be part of big regeneration for the area, but truth be told nothing much had changed. The streets flanking the giant stadium seemed to be somehow in its shadow – neglected, forgotten and more than a little depressed.

It was a description that could have aptly fitted Emilia Garanita over the past year or two. She was a talented and ambitious reporter who had underachieved so far. There was no point dressing it up as anything else. She had overplayed her hand during previous investigations and ended up back at the bottom of the heap, the victim of a particularly unscrupulous game of snakes and ladders.

Many held her responsible for this, but Emilia never had. She had been made promises, promises that hadn’t been kept. This was the story of her life in many ways and in this particular instance the irony wasn’t lost on her. She had trusted a journalist and look where it had got her.

The pair she was following slowed now. The woman was instantly recognizable – DC Charlene ‘Charlie’ Brooks – an honest and determined copper whom Emilia had crossed swords with many times. The girl she didn’t know, but Charlie Brooks had been incredibly solicitous to her since leaving the police station – driving her home, buying her drinks and magazines, pep talking her every step of the way. This girl wasn’t some truant or teen runaway – she was someone important.

Emilia snuck into a greasy spoon and found a table by the window. Ignoring the unfriendly assertion by the owner that she couldn’t sit there without buying anything, Emilia kept her eyes glued on the dumb show playing out opposite. The girl looked nervous, even a little anxious, but Brooks was working hard to soothe her. Emilia couldn’t hear the words but the body language – the hand gently squeezing the girl’s arm – spoke volumes.

Removing her tablet from her bag, Emilia pulled up the link for the electoral register. She shouldn’t have it of course – it was for internal Council use only – but no self-respecting local journalist could do without it. She’d already clocked the road name as they turned into it, now she added the house number. Instantly she had her answer. Two people registered to the address: Sharon Jackson, aged forty-two, and Naomie Jackson, aged seventeen.

Slipping her tablet away, Emilia was pleased to see that Brooks was taking her leave. Rising, she allowed her to turn the corner, before hurrying from the café and straight across the road. Once on the doorstep she paused for a second – to smooth her hair and reapply her lipstick – before confidently ringing the doorbell.

Naomie must have been expecting Brooks again, because her face fell when she saw a stranger standing on the doorstep.

‘Naomie? It is Naomie Jackson, isn’t it?’

The girl nodded cautiously.

‘I was given your name by DI Grace at Southampton Central. She says you’re assisting them with their enquiries?’

Another tiny nod.

‘Well, as you know, the News always plays an active role in keeping the wider public informed about matters affecting their safety and well-being. I understand you have new information which is proving very helpful to the police in their hunt for this terrible arsonist and I was wondering if I might come in for two minutes to chat about it?’

The girl was clearly unsure, so Emilia followed up quickly.

‘We don’t have to use your name, anything you tell me is in confidence and, yes, we do pay. So what do you say?’

Moments later, Emilia was settled in the girl’s dreary living room prising information from the monosyllabic teen. She kept her eyes locked on the girl, but her hand worked overtime, scribbling down every tiny detail of her testimony. Already Emilia had the feeling that this was going to play well for her – that this latest case would finally allow Emilia to write her own happy ending.

53

Deborah Parks marched across the café, turning heads as she went. Out of her work scrubs she was quite something – her svelte figure and flowing hair released from the baggy, sexless suit to impressive effect. Helen was not surprised to see more than one man pause in his conversation as she glided past their tables.

Kissing Helen hello, she sat down and gestured to the waiter for a cappuccino. It was always strange – and refreshing – to meet colleagues away from the workplace. Interaction at crime scenes and on disaster sites was necessarily sombre and professional, but this didn’t really suit Deborah or do justice to her bubbly, optimistic personality. They chatted happily, then Helen elegantly moved the conversation on to more serious matters. This wasn’t a social call – Helen was here to dig for dirt.

Sanderson’s first pass on the Fire and Rescue staff rotas had thrown up six preliminary names. Six men whose shift patterns could have allowed them to start the fires and who fitted the profile in terms of age, marital status and disciplinary history. Helen had already dispatched officers from her team to do the preliminary checks, asking these six individuals standard, routine questions about their movements, their take on the fires and any suspicions they might have – all in the interest of sniffing out small discrepancies in their alibis or something unusual in their behaviour. These conversations were necessarily anodyne and often brief, but it was surprising what they sometimes threw up. A family member listening in, a girlfriend uncomfortable at providing a false alibi – these visits often served to undermine the perpetrator in unexpected ways.